


The Rage Of Achilles: A Love Story

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Steve Rogers, Fighting As Foreplay, Hydra Revenge Tour, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line, Rough Sex, Trying To Come Between Steve And Bucky Is Not The Best Idea, violence as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You don't fucking get it, do you." Steve jerked Bucky around to face him, fist curled around the edge of his Kevlar vest. Bucky hadn't even heard him move. Looking into his eyes was like gazing upon one of the archangels of the Old Testament. Awe-inspiring power and pure, terrible conviction. "I would raze the planet before I allowed anyone to lay a hand on you. If I have to personally kill every Hydra agent with my bare hands or shoot anyone who tries to bring you in, even a friend, so be it."</i><br/> <br/>Or: Where Bucky goes, Steve will follow.  No matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rage Of Achilles: A Love Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keire_ke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Coffeemaking for Dummies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237080) by [keire_ke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke). 



_Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans._

 

Bucky had to hand it to Steve's friends. They were almost as stubborn and reckless as Steve himself was.

So far, Bucky hadn't seen any sign of Romanov or Wilson, but Bucky had memorized the files on both of them, knew they were somewhere nearby, maybe another wing of the building, maybe the next level up. No doubt by now they'd seen the array of broken bodies, strewn like so much detritus on the cold, unforgiving tile. Which meant he and Steve could expect company in the very near future. 

But it wouldn't be in enough time to save Stark. Not if he kept shuffling forward the way he was doing. Like he hadn't just had the living shit beat out of him by the very same man he was trying to walk towards.

Watching that fight - brief and brutal though it was - had been like watching Stark run head first into a barbed-wire fence over and over, and somehow expecting a different result each time. The very definition of insanity.

Stark's hands were raised in surrender. His suit was dented and damaged almost beyond recognition, charred black in several places, and there was an ominous metal on metal shrieking noise whenever he moved. His helmet had long ago been knocked to the ground, leaving his head and neck vulnerable and exposed. And still, he kept inching forward, like Steve was too stupid to notice. 

"C'mon, Cap," he was saying, "you gotta let us bring him in, buddy. You know it's the right thing to do."

Steve's hand didn't waver. The barrel of his gun was pointing right at Stark's throat. "Touch him and die."

"We both know you're not gonna pull the trigger."

Steve flicked the safety off with his thumb. The sound was unnaturally loud in the crouching stillness. "Try me."

Bucky almost hoped Stark was dumb enough to do it. It would serve him right for thinking that the placating, borderline condescending, tone he was using would work with _Steve_ , of all people. 

"You're not a killer. Not like that."

"Captain America was birthed to win a war and he killed plenty of people to do it. This war is no different. If you die, it will be acceptable collateral damage."

Bucky could have told Stark that nothing changed Steve's mind once he'd decided on a course of action. And he might have, if Stark had bothered to even turn his head Bucky's way. But he knew Stark never would. This whole 'intervention' or 'rescue mission' or whatever Stark and company wanted to call it wasn't really about Bucky and everyone except Steve knew it. Bucky didn't even really _exist_ in the eyes of the rest of the world. He was a cautionary tale, a boogeyman, a _thing_ to be put down like a rabid dog or a carrot to dangle in front of Steve for the promise of good behavior. He was Steve's charity case, his atonement, his penance, something pitiable and sad; not so much a person as a pawn in a game he wanted no part in playing. 

But, as much as Bucky personally wouldn't mind if Steve pulled the trigger, killing Stark wouldn't resolve anything. And this was the last place Bucky wanted to be standing when Romanov showed up. Taking down Stark and a building full of Hydra agents was one thing. Taking down the Black Widow was something else entirely.

He stepped up to Steve's right, laid cool metal fingers over Steve's wrist. Not enough to jostle the gun, but enough to get his attention. "We need to leave."

Steve shook his head slightly, but didn't lower the muzzle. "Buck, we can't let him –"

"So shoot him or don't, but either way, we need to exfil _now_."

After a long moment of charged silence that not even Stark was stupid enough to try and break, Steve flicked the safety on and handed the gun to Bucky. He wasted no time securing it. Steve's head sagged for just an instant, but then he put his body between Stark and Bucky, pulled his shoulders back to full attention. And his voice was infused with so much ice that Bucky involuntarily shivered. "You come after him, you'll have to go through me. And next time, I won't go so easy on you."

"God _dammit_ , Rogers –" Stark called, but Steve had already picked up his shield and was headed towards the elevator on the other side of the room. Bucky gave half a thought about adding his own warning, but decided against it. Stark didn't strike him as the type of person who listened well, if at all. 

Steve jerked his head at the elevator. "You coming?" he asked Bucky. He didn't so much as twitch an eye Stark's direction. To him, Stark was now as much of a threat as the bodies on the ground.

Bucky buried his knife in the throat of the Hydra agent who stumbled out of the door to Steve's left and didn't answer. He didn't need to.

They had another base to take down and a schedule to keep.

***

Before the serum, Steve had fought with tenacity and sheer bullheadedness – zero skill, but all heart and pointy elbows and knees and lucky shots. During the War, he'd been all brute strength and hard hits, learning his new body and its seemingly endless capabilities with every strike of his fist and every bit of training he managed to pick up on far too many missions across Europe. But now, he'd perfected his style into an art form, a dance that he knew by heart. Every part of his body moved in sync, a well-practiced, well-oiled machine humming along on a different level than everyone else in the field. 

There was a certain grace present in every spin and kick and punch, something breathtaking about how fast and light on his feet he was, how silently he could strike, the way he used the shield as an extension of his body, as both weapon and protection. He'd always had a brilliant military mind – he'd read all those books about tactics and warfare and strategies from Alexander the Great to Commander Mišić growing up – and he'd clearly started to put all of that knowledge to excellent use. He'd managed to harness his inner strength and tenacity into something much greater than the sum of its parts, managed to make even Bucky, who'd also studied every fighting style under the sun, pause for a moment in battle just to watch and admire as Steve cleared a room full of enemy combatants with near silent, lethal precision.

Back in Brooklyn, Bucky'd been a boxer, relying on well-timed jabs and quick feet to distract his opponents (who were, more often than not, Steve's opponents as well) in order to land the knockout blow. During the War, he'd relied on his keen eye and excellent aim to bring down the enemy and keep the rest of his men safe, on strategic positioning and having a team around him who knew their roles and could execute them to perfection. And, after his fall, Hydra had taken that quickness and that preternatural focus and used both to turn him into the perfect stealth weapon. They'd frequently brought him out of cryo to practice and study, to hone his skills and to learn new ones, made him learn to use every weapon at his disposal, had him fight against a variety of opponents, set obstacles in his path to see how he'd react, used sensory deprivation techniques so he could fight without relying on his sight or hearing. As a result, there wasn't a target he couldn't hit, an obstacle he wouldn't work around or use to his advantage, a fight he couldn't win using a combination of speed and smarts.

Together, Steve and Bucky were the perfect team. Raw strength and Machiavellian cunning mixed with deadly force and incomparable skill. They moved with a single-minded purpose, terrifying and controlled and relentless. They were, both of them, bred for war, for combat and violence and death, their DNA rearranged and their bodies modified to be the perfect killing machines. And they were just as merciless as machines, implacable, incapable of mercy, an unstoppable force.

They were poetic, a brutal ballet, a Wagnerian opera written in blood and screams and gunfire. 

And _everything_ about it was wrong.

***

Sometimes, after they cleared the area and did mop up duty, double-tapping everyone to make damn sure they weren't getting up, they went after each other with biting kisses and rough hands on skin. It was a release, nothing more, a way to come down from the adrenaline rush of battle, nothing at all like how they'd been before the War, before either of them were science experiments gone horribly right.

Bucky never let himself remember those times or those halcyon days. He was pretty sure Steve had blocked the memories entirely. Now, the only thing that existed for either one of them was the kill and the next base to wipe off the face of the earth. If Bucky'd had Steve around during his Winter Soldier days, Hydra would have taken over the world decades ago. He was just as ruthless as Bucky himself. Just as ruthless and just as deadly and Bucky admired it as much as he hated it.

But then, this thing – whatever it was – that existed between him and Steve, the core of it had always been about violence. Every punch and kick in every Brooklyn alley, every heated word that cut deeper than a knife, every bullet fired and grenade thrown, every dead body strewn across every battlefield – _that_ was the true tie that bound them together. They were eyeballs deep in blood and gore, their music was the rhythmic crunch of broken bones and shattered cries, their language was a symphony of death and destruction.

Whatever else they were to each other, by whatever label and definition, they'd always had this one truth binding them to each other with chains stronger than vibranium and tighter than a noose. 

***

They'd left the smoldering ruins of yet another Hydra base an hour ago, left the charred remains of the bodies to be found by the authorities or the newly reformed SHIELD or what remained of the Avengers, it didn't matter, not to them. By the time anyone found the place, Bucky and Steve would be long gone, onto the next facility, the next spot on the map.

"You know, your friend Stark has a point," Bucky said, once they'd checked the perimeter around the safe house – a rustic one room cabin in a remote, wooded area – and bolted the door shut. Like Steve, he was still covered in blood not his own. He was so exhausted he thought he could sleep for a week. He couldn't remember the last time he'd snatched more than a couple of hours at a time. Couldn't remember the last time he had a decent meal, either. They were both running on fumes and sheer, dogged determination, and their opponents were _still_ no match for them.

Steve's back was a rigid line as he stood in the small kitchen. "We've been over this already."

Bucky unstrapped his rifle, and set it on the small table in what laughably passed for the dining area. The other guns and knives and assorted weapons came next. They all needed to be cleaned and checked before he repacked their duffel, but that could wait until after he'd gotten cleaned up himself. "Maybe I want to go over it again." 

Steve finished wiping at the blood and grime and dirt on his hands and put the blackened, soiled towel down on the counter. Every move was deliberate. When he turned to face Bucky, his face was shuttered. All except for his eyes, which blazed with so much anger and passion that they seemed to light him up from within. "You of all people know we don't always get what we want."

"Humor me."

"Fine." Steve unholstered his .45 from his utility belt, set it next to Bucky's weapons. "If you're going to go after the people who did this to you, then so am I. Your hands won't be the only ones getting dirty."

Bucky gripped the edge of the table with his left hand so hard the wood started to splinter under unforgiving metal. "You can't save me. I'm way past that."

Steve shook his head. There was brain matter and blood still matted to his hair, dulling the shine. "This isn't about saving you."

"Don't bullshit me." 

"I'm not. I wouldn't. Not about this."

This wasn't getting them anywhere. And Bucky was suddenly way too fucking tired for this conversation, for the inevitable argument he knew would follow. "Well, I'm not worth this...amends or atonement or whatever you're calling it," he said, and turned to head towards the tiny bathroom at the other end of the cabin.

"You don't fucking get it, do you." Steve jerked Bucky around to face him, fist curled around the edge of his Kevlar vest. Bucky hadn't even heard him move. Looking into his eyes was like gazing upon one of the archangels of the Old Testament. Awe-inspiring power and pure, terrible conviction. "I would raze the planet before I allowed anyone to lay a hand on you. If I have to personally kill every Hydra agent with my bare hands or shoot _anyone_ who tries to bring you in, even a friend, so be it."

"I don't need you to fight my goddamn battles for me." Bucky pushed at him, harder than he meant, and Steve's back hit the wall on a bounce. Steve just bared his teeth and charged forward, his shoulder hitting Bucky square on the chest and they went skidding over the back of the sofa and onto the coffee table. The legs buckled under their weight, and they half-slid, half-rolled off of it, trading blows.

Steve's fist connected with his jaw, the angle awkward, but with enough force behind it to snap Bucky's head back. He retaliated by driving his metal fist into Steve's side, and rolled under Steve's hold to clamber to his feet. It only took Steve a second to get his breath, and he charged in low, wrapped an arm around Bucky's knees to send him crashing into the bookcase behind him. Bucky grappled for purchase, and they tumbled to the floor, the bookcase teetering, then falling with a boom and a shower of dust and wood splinters.

It was almost like they were boys again, tussling on the playground during recess, neither wanting to do serious damage to the other, but neither one wanting to concede the fight. They each managed to land some good shots and kicks – even with all his gear on, Bucky knew he'd be sporting some new bruises and he'd definitely reopened a couple of wounds – but nothing too serious. Then Steve flipped Bucky on his back and straddled his hips before lowering his head to take Bucky's lips in a hard kiss that tasted like copper and iron.

Bucky growled, low and indistinct, and buried his hands in Steve's hair to hold him in place, each kiss brutal and harsh, another battle where there was no victor. Steve's teeth scraped his tongue, Bucky bit on Steve's lower lip, both of them grinding against each other with no rhythm whatsoever, just animal need.

They didn't even bother with trying to get naked, just yanked on zippers and tugged at buttons until they could each get a fist around the other's cock. It was sloppy and uncoordinated, more about the adrenaline rush and getting off than making it good or even making it last. Bucky came embarrassingly quickly, and Steve wasn't too far behind, shuddering all over, then collapsing on top of him.

Bucky swiped at his pants leg to try to get rid of some of the mess on his hand, and turned his head, mouthed at Steve's jaw, lips catching on rough bristles. "I could shake you, you know that," he murmured. A warning disguised as afterplay. They both knew the only reason Steve was with him was because Bucky was allowing it.

"And I'll just come after you again," Steve replied, unconcerned. "Where you go, I go. You run, I run. You fight, I fight. You kill, I kill."

"I _never_ wanted this for you. Not any of it." Bucky flung his hand out to encompass the room and all of the destruction – the broken sofa, splintered coffee table and toppled bookcase all strewn about like the bodies of the men they'd killed earlier. Seemed an apt comparison to their lives. Both of them shattered in so many ways, beyond any hope of fixing.

"The thing is, it doesn't matter what you want, Buck." Steve's hands were gentle combing through his hair. His gaze was soft, but filled with a fierce, infinite devotion that made Bucky's chest ache. "I'm still with you. So get used to it."

As filthy and tired and hungry as Bucky was, he really didn't want to move away from the heat of Steve's body pinning him in place. Which was answer enough. "If I agree to stop, what would we do? Where the hell could we go?"

The hands on him stilled. "Anywhere, doesn't matter. What do you want to do?"

"I dunno, raising horses or something might be nice." Being surrounded by nature, not buildings, someplace secluded and not easily accessible, just him and Steve, no one else... He'd always been a city boy, but that boy had died a long time ago. And living away from people sounded like a damn good dream.

"I could learn about horses. Just say the word."

Bucky frowned. "And the shield? Being Captain America?"

"Fuck all of it," Steve replied, with a careless shrug. "Sam can have it. The shield and the title. I never wanted any of that, you _know_ I didn't. I just wanted to be on the front lines with you so I could watch your back."

"Disappearing won't be easy."

"We've had worse odds," Steve said. "And we'd be together."

It sounded impossible. Unattainable. But the two of them were masters of achieving the impossible, specialists in seizing the unattainable. And Bucky had a lifetime of living and working in the shadows to draw on, if needed. "We'll see," he said. They weren't ready, not either of them. But maybe, one day, they'd get there.

Steve nodded. "Whenever you're ready."

"Right now, I just want a shower." Bucky raised an eyebrow, met Steve's amused look with a smirk and a pointed glance at both of them, reeking of sweat and come and gun oil and still covered in blood. "You planning on joining me for that?"

Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky's temple, and smiled, slow and filthy, all teeth and dark promise. "Yeah, I think we could use one."

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Melle and Jo for the betas and the encouragement and vetoing me when I wanted to rewrite the middle section.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)


End file.
